


To know (denial)

by blue_spectrum



Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime)
Genre: Imprisonment, M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spectrum/pseuds/blue_spectrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slaine is convinced he doesn’t deserve life, while Inaho wishes he could share his hope even if he doesn’t know nearly enough to help. Imprisonment is the only thing that seems to keep them from drifting apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by limyth, who is always helping me in one way or another.

The sun is glorious, shining golden mist over their heads while the grass provides a comfortable mattress for their bodies. Slaine can hear their classmates laughing, as far away as if it was a dream, but so close that it warms his heart with joy.

They are side by side, an unlikely pair, looking up at the sky; just two boys making each other company. Inaho discarded his phone in favor of watching Slaine, whose book lies closed over his stomach, the panorama overhead a much more enticing view. There are no worries, no tests on this field trip, nothing more than wondering if they can have eggs with their dinner.

Inaho’s eyelids start going down, slumber claiming his mind as well as his body. He would rather continue his reading, surfing the internet to further instruct himself on different topics. But he is with Slaine and the boy has made him break so many barriers now, that he doesn’t even question his heart when it doesn’t go towards its usual direction.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Slaine says out loud, a smile that Inaho doesn’t need to see to know that it’s there. He turns his head, just a little, still looking up. “How diffraction can create such a beautiful blue?”

And he is about to point out that it’s not refraction, it’s Rayleigh scattering, but he stops when he looks next to him. Slaine is there, with a smile so wide, so happy, and so relaxed…

“It’s perfect”, the blond says.

“Yes”, Inaho agrees, birds flying over their heads.

He can correct Slaine any moment, but for now he turns his head, determined to keep his eyes on the boy. Because more than anything, this is what he wants to learn and remember, what he wants to _know_.

The smile is almost too bright, blazing with energy, like looking at the sun. Inaho squints just so he can continue looking at it, his hand stretching over the grass to reach for Slaine’s fingers, brushing them softly. He smiles too, his eyes closing gently.

He feels a sudden rush of air next to him, and his lips warm with the borrowed heat of Slaine’s for a second too short. He continues to smile up to the sky, the hold on his hand tightening, the blue sky looking after them.

Inaho gasps awake.

The pain in the left side of his skull is unbearable. A fading memory tries to take over, but his mechanical eye immediately fills in on what he missed while he was unconscious. A shock of agony tells him that he miscalculated, he doesn’t have the time he thought he had. His head is throbbing, vibrating as if a downpour of information was dumped in it, impossible to overlook.

He gets up, ignoring the feeling of warmth missing on his hand, Seylum’s cold necklace doing nothing to soothe him, the longing for a smile he has never seen stabbing his chest. He needs to get out of the Moon Base and assess the situation, regroup and trace a new plan. That’s all. It’s the only thing he can allow himself to know.


	2. The unknown (future)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His head hurts and he’s tired. This has to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the trigger warnings in the tags! The rating went up as well because of said triggers (for now). As always, this was betaed by limyth, who deserves the world for all the words I make her read. This is my take on the mandatory post-finale prison fic, still a work in progress, so feedback will be much appreciated.
> 
> PS: Dialogue from the series was taken from HorribleSubs version.

Inaho’s mind zeroes-in in the fight, leaving no room for any other kind of thought. He can’t and won’t allow himself to remember something he doesn’t know, that will just serve as a distraction and make him vulnerable. He can’t allow himself to make mistakes, can’t be even a fraction of a second late.

He tells himself that it’s Seylum’s words what move him, making him fiercer and more determined than ever. More precise than ever. There’s too much at stake here, in this shallow and pointless battle. Nothing will be won, but a lot could be lost. _Talk to him, Inaho-san, it’s the only favor I am going to ask from you, please_.

Even before the battle, he’s been holding from those words to convince himself that they’re leading his way, that they made him see that dream. Just those words and nothing more, nothing else.

(He wishes he could be sure, somehow, that the creeping doubt would leave him. It affects him in ways he didn’t know possible, irrational and foreign thoughts plaguing his mind, filling it with what? Hope?)

Now, in the heat of the long awaited confrontation, when sweat covers his forehead, he can only think of that ( _that_?), _focus_ on that so he won’t get anxious over something he doesn’t understand.

(But it was so bright. He needs to know.)

His head hurts, a constant buzz playing inside his skull since he woke up in the Moon base. He won’t let that get in the way though, he knows with pinpoint accuracy where they need to land and must guide Slaine Troyard there. Everything will be futile if they fall somewhere else and he escapes. From here on, it’s all logical, reasoning, calculations. It’s easier that way.

He runs the decryption and opens a channel, his voice reaching the blond’s ears.

“No matter how much you predict my attacks, there’s no point if you can’t escape”, he says, more to himself than to cause any effect on his contender. He is contained, he is focused (or is he?).

“You’re the one who can’t escape!”, Slaine says, by now resigned to keep hearing that infuriating monotone that keeps coming back to him. There’s no avoiding this young man and it seems like his voice will be the last one he’ll ever listen to. What a shame.

Inaho is aware of Troyard’s determination, of how much he has left now, what his current goal is. But still, hope seems like a virus that entangles him, like a snake constricting his limbs. (He is trapped, unwilling to run away. He needs to know).

“I don’t think it will do any good, but I’ll ask anyway. Surrender, Slaine Troyard”

“You came all this way to say such a pointless thing to me, Kaizuka Inaho?”

“No, I have a different objective”

“I’m glad to hear that”, he says, vicious, his blood boiling with excitement. He trusts and expects Orange to finally kill him, to give him a beautiful death in the midst of a glorious battle. There is no other way for him to go down, no other way for him to obtain freedom. This is what he wants. “Don’t disappoint me!”

That’s an honest request that seems to be spot on, seeing as the monitors of his Tharsis are failing. _Good_ , he thinks, ready for it.

“I no longer have any need for a future!”

Inaho takes this as a success, the predictions one thing less to worry about. His head hurts, his left eye doing everything it can to assist with the fight, overexerting itself. The pain seems to extend through his throat and chest, clenching his heart. (But then, that could be the effect of his feelings, of the pressure, of a future he has yet to know).

(Slaine feels the pressure too, for some reason. Shouldn’t he be resigned to his fate? Didn’t he want death? He was going to welcome it with open arms, and yet, what’s this nagging feeling he has, right at the pit of his stomach? Why is there still doubt in him, uncertainty?)

“There’s nothing to be gained by continuing to fight”, Inaho says, finally regaining some of his composure. He must remember: whatever his feelings are, he is still on a mission.

“Yes, but there’s nothing to be lost by it, either”. Slaine is sure. He has nothing to lose, and even if he had, he’d give it up for a chance to defeat Kaizuka Inaho.

“Giving in to despair is a foolish choice”, he admonishes. If he could talk some sense into Bat, maybe there’d be another option. Unfortunately, the man is keen on hating him and it will take a long time for that to even start to change. (Maybe he should decide to hate him too, it’d make things easier and less confusing).

“You just don’t get it. This is the choice I wanted the most!” This time, there is no doubt. Among the ocean of possibilities that exist for him, that he wants to fight against this boy is a fact. He is ready to die, that’s true, but he will be glad to take Orange with him.

 _There is no other option_ , Inaho thinks as he charges onto the white Kataphrakt. _This has to end_.

“I always… hated that color!”

Slaine says, an air of finality resounding as Sleipnir’s head piece shatters. The Tharsis is also hit, its pilot bleeding by the sheer force of the impact. The warnings in his screens are relieving, in a sense. It’s the end now, time to sleep and rest at long last. He will leave after a fulfilling fight, following the destiny of a soldier. He’ll go in battle just like count Saazbaum, truly mirroring him in the last stage of his life.

He is ready to face his destiny, there’s nothing else he wants but to finally fall and reach the end. Except…

Inaho steels himself. This is the moment he has been waiting for. He reaches for the Tharsis’ hand so it won’t drift away. He knows he’s talking to Slaine, for the first time not yelling or fighting. He wishes for more of that, but for now he focuses on the calculations, the preparations. This needs to be precise, otherwise they will both die.

(He doesn’t want to let go. There’s a force driving him to the other man, a person he knows almost nothing about, the one he declared as his enemy. Why does this happen and _why can’t he stop it_?)

They start to fall, holding each other in ways they can’t comprehend.

They fall.

\---

Inaho sees Slaine dragging himself over the sand, out of the water, his lean and wet body still that of a boy. It’s just a second that he has to think that this man could have conquered Earth. It’s just one second he spares to think of Seylum-san’s necklace, floating in pieces on the sea, getting lost in the darkness of a too dark blue.

He points the gun and Slaine sees him, _smiles_. Inaho has never seen someone reject his life quite so clearly and it’s a shock. A shock that those are the same lips he remembers as bright and kind, even if he never _knew_ them as such.

He still has the gun in his hand and clenches the handle. Slaine closes his eyes. Inaho reconsiders his options, rethinks his plan. Everything is in place, he made sure of that. Everything will be alright. The trigger feels as heavy as his Kataphrakt, but that’s alright too, he knows he won’t shoot. But Slaine doesn’t and keeps his eyes closed, waiting.

And so Inaho stops thinking and acts, hits Slaine’s head with the handle of his gun, knocking him out with one move. He doesn’t want him to resist and knows he can’t convince him to come with him without resistance. He’d try to take his own life so others won’t have a say on it.

Inaho stops thinking. He couldn’t talk to Bat even if he was willing to listen, not when the overwhelming data pouring from his eye and the projected illusions from his brain blurry their limits and mix up.

His head hurts and he’s tired. This has to stop.

\---

Slaine is taken into custody. There is no trial, no judge, no sentence. He is a traitor on Earth and Mars, an instigator, the highest threat to peace, so they strip him from his rights and his freedom without a second thought. There is not much Inaho can do about it, even with the influence he has gained. It’s only the authorities’ wish to keep a trophy that keeps the count alive.

Inaho’s heart is beating too hard, too fast in his chest when he asks to be in charge of Slaine’s imprisonment. They ask him why: he could be anywhere, do anything now that he has been awarded as a war hero. He tells them that it’s his duty, that he wants to make sure Slaine won’t be involved in further conflicts.

He had expected the outcome, but he is glad they agree and he doesn’t have to fake Slaine’s death. Running away with him, keeping him alive, hidden and safe from the UFE and himself, wouldn’t be an easy task for a high ranked general such as Inaho. The young Kaizuka’d be on high demand for at least a year, until the heat of war turned into the dying flame it should always be, no fame or honor lost and gained, no public events to settle hostilities.

This needs to be done quietly, in the shadows, a secret to the masses only known for a few selected authorities. Those who know, old men that never knew what war was, spend their days asking for the boy to be publicly executed. Others want him as leverage, in case rebels were to appear. Fewer of them want Slaine as a pet to play with, want to torture him and look for any secret he might offer. The Terran brat that wanted to reign Vers, they call him, laughing at him, at his disgraceful fall.

That’s why Inaho needs to be the highest authority in charge of Troyard, that’s why he’ll let them forget about his existence and have only people he can trust guarding the prison. He needs to protect him from within the rules, so none can question him, so none can lay a hand on him.

Slaine is taken into custody, transported to the jail complex general Kaizuka has prepared. The guards strip him from his red uniform, replacing even his underwear with foreign clothes. He is awake for the trip, awake while they undress him and tend to his wounds. He doesn’t cooperate, but he doesn’t resist either. The count only tries to fight when they place heavy cuffs on his wrists.

Inaho hears about this from his office, where he has to be on that day. He is sure everything will go smoothly though, since he had the time to interview and check the profiles and background of his soldiers. That had been the last mission for his left eye, to aid during those interviews, make sure they were honest, make sure they’d obey. No violence is permitted unless absolutely necessary, no harm done to the prisoner unless they need to prevent him from harming himself.

He still wants to go see it with his own eyes, to make sure everything is in place and witness these first steps into his enemy’s new life. His first excuse comes three days after the start of Slaine Troyard’s imprisonment.

\---

The first time he wakes up in his cell it’s late, dark and cold. His eyes adjust slowly to the dim light, mainly coming from the other side of the metal bars. He remembers falling, remembers the water and the old, mocking faces looking at him as if they were better human beings. They don’t matter more than him now that the war is over. His limbs are heavy from sleeping on the rough mattress, and he can’t recall when he closed his eyes and gave up to slumber, when or why he allowed himself such a luxury.

Slaine doesn’t react until he tries to stretch and becomes aware of the weight on his wrist, bounded by a chain. He starts sweating and can immediately feel his heart pounding inside his skull. They might be watching, the metal will give them the advantage. He chokes on air, wanting to get rid of it, of the bounding cold. He stumbles on the bed, falling down, his knees hitting the concrete with an echoing sound, feet entangled in the white sheets. His breathing is hard and labored, there’s not enough air to fill his lungs. He looks up at the dark bricks, menacing, silent, made to prevent his voice from ever reaching helping ears.

He is exposed there, on the floor, in plain sight, so he kneels and looks around for the corner further from the entrance. He crawls and runs, until his back is against the icy wall and he can look ahead, eyes wide, alert.

His body hurts, the scars on his back and chest burning. He is too cold, feels like puking, but he can’t move. He feels like crying but he won’t give them the pleasure. He needs to be awake, to be ready for when the count comes to continue his interrogation, ready for when torture begins again…

He hears a noise. Freezes, eyes frantic. Waits.

It’s a soldier, coming to check on him. He doesn’t talk, just points a flashlight at him and goes away. But Slaine’s ready, it doesn’t matter if it’s now or later, he’ll be ready. He won’t give anything away. He needs to protect her…

Another noise. This time two sets of footsteps. It’s weird, they don’t come to laugh at him and insult him. They don’t spit at him or hit him. They talk for a bit and then leave. It’s all the same to him, he’ll be ready…

He opens his eyes, when and why did he close them? They could’ve come and he’d be there, with his guard down, could’ve said something, give something away and he couldn’t he can’t he won’t. He moves and the chain echoes loud in his ears, a loud ringing noise shaking his brain. A whip cuts the air and he braces himself for the hit that never comes.

He is drowning, the chain. It drags him down, down into the bricks. He is dissolving as he smells something nice, like soup. There’s a plate outside the bars, when did it get there. Must be a trap. He won’t fall for it. He won’t fall.

Slaine hugs his legs, flinching when metal clacks on metal. It’s dark once more.

\---

It’s the second (third) time Inaho sees Slaine’s eyes, and he already wishes he could forget. The blond is in the same corner the guards had told him, looking ahead with a dark, empty, lifeless green. There are dry trails of tears on his cheeks and he keeps muttering something under his breath, something about protecting, something about not telling, something about loyalty.

Slaine is hugging his legs, unmoving. He doesn’t react when Inaho opens the lock and enters the cell. The general approaches slowly, carefully. He knows better than to barge in and scare him. He looks for a few seconds, trying to keep his own breathing calm.

“Slaine”, he calls from a few steps away. There is no answer or change, not even a twitch in the other’s eyes. “Slaine”, he tries again, raising his voice only a little. He hopes none of the guards are listening to him, because his voice is so gentle that even he can’t recognize it.

“Slaine Troyard”, he calls once more, forcing himself to sound stern. “You’re on Earth, in prison. You’re on Earth, not Vers, their landing castles, or the Moon base. You’re a prisoner of the United Federation of Earth. I beat you in our last fight, you’re my prisoner now and the guards tell me you’ve been in that same corner for three days”.

No answer, no visible change. Just the unceasing muttering.

“Slaine”, his voice falters, becoming soft again. “No one is going to hurt you here”, he says, his tongue tasting lies when he licks his lips. He ignores that.

The unfocused green eyes start looking for something, his mind probably registering a voice that doesn’t fit with the fears in his mind.

Inaho crouches down in front of him before speaking. “Hey, it’s Orange, Bat. You’ve been a very bad guest, refusing to eat since you came. Where did you learn those manners? I thought you were nobility or something like that, even if you had to win the title”

“Orange…”

“Yes, I don’t know why you seem so fond of that nickname”

“You can kill me”. His voice seems to echo, hoarse and devoid of emotion; it sends a chill down Inaho’s spine. At least his eyes are starting to focus on Inaho’s face, still looking for something.

“I won’t”, he says, trying to keep him talking.

“Why…?”

Slaine looks down, his shaking arms going behind his head, the chain still in place. Inaho knows what he’s doing. He’s trying to strangle himself with the metal, an action that’s ineffective because the chain is not long enough and because his weak arms don’t have the strength to carry out the task.

The general feels lost and for the first time limited by his age. This is something he doesn’t know how to deal with, that puzzles him and leads his mind processes to a halt, drawing a blank he can’t escape. He has no experience with feelings as complicated as what Slaine must be going through, no experience with what he is feeling. He’s lead a life where Yuki or Inko were there to decipher the social clues that often pass by him, helping him understand his own heart sometimes. He knows a little now, more than before, but not enough. It’s just not enough.

Inaho looks impassive, face carefully neutral, while countless doubts emerge inside of him.

Maybe he should have just killed him on that beach, free him from this suffering, giving him the mercy he was asking for. He could still do it here, allow him to end his life, end the shame…

But a flash of a dream stops him. The light reflects on the chain that still clacks against Slaine’s neck, his desperate expression a painful contrast to the image Inaho holds in his memories. He’s being selfish for the first time, grabbing for that same ray of hope that made him risk entering Earth’s atmosphere as a shooting star. This stubborn hope that won’t let him sleep, that won’t let him accept that he has no plan.

Inaho gets up and calls for a guard. He instructs him to take off the cuffs and never use them again. Slaine will have surveillance 24/7, the priority is getting him to eat. He will be visiting again in the morning, but he wants a report on the situation every hour until then. The man salutes and nods, not a question, not a doubt in his manner (so sure of his task that he envies him, wishes for it to be as simple as before, taking orders and tracing plans).

Inaho is still confused when he gets into the car, his heart pounding at a dangerous rate. Yuki doesn’t ask, she just drives them away, as fast as she can, wishing that they never have to come back.


	3. To hope (and howl)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t know what to make out of his confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, betaed by limyth.

Slaine would never have guessed that he’d be Inaho Kaizuka’s prisoner. Because he won’t try to delude himself, he knows all of this is that annoying Orange’s doing. The UFE would be more appeased with him dead, if their guarded smiles and cautious distance were anything to go by. He only had the chance to face them once, when they gathered to kindly inform him that his fate was to be in prison until his last breath and all they had done was look at him from afar, as if he was some sort of wild beast ready to rip their heads off. He didn’t complain. He didn’t care. It didn’t make much of a difference where they’d put him. Anywhere was enemy territory for him, so he’d just study his surroundings and plan for that last breath he was sure to take sooner rather than later.

He had arrived to the prison complex, mind and soul empty, as the only inmate. He couldn’t remember those first days, physically and emotionally drained by one too many emotions at once and not a chance to figure them out. He didn’t try either, since each and every time all he got was a headache and the beginnings of a panic attack. He just knew that he had accepted some food, too weak to think about anything else, his body rebelling against him because of the weak state he had left it in.

He ate as little as possible, tiny portions that were just enough to keep him going, to keep him trapped in his own body. He couldn’t take anymore, he didn’t want anything else. He didn’t deserve it. He was only living to assess the situation and plan. Everything else was insignificant, meaningless, temporary.

Looking around him, his best option was probably starvation, but he doubted the guards would just stay there and let him die. There should be another way though; either that or he’d create a chance. He was sure of one thing though: his father’s pendant. That’d be his last resource. It was his only treasure, the one memento he had left from a life with some resemblance of warmth. His home was in that pendant, like a distant memory he wanted to preserve. It wasn’t a last hope, because he had none of that. It was a last fragment of reality he could relate to.

He thought of all this while his food got cold. Why they wanted him to have hot meals was beyond him. He took one bite of bread, grimacing at its crispiness. He felt like puking, but he forced himself to eat. Because he knew they wouldn’t let him die of starvation, he needed the sustenance to find a different way, even if he felt like a traitor for every bite he could have while his allies were…

He slowly drops the bread on the tray, once steaming soup untouched, and slides them towards the metal bars. He has had enough for the day.

\---

It’s boring and monotonous, maddening in how simple his existence has become. He spends every day curled in his bed, refusing to have more than two bites of what the guards feed him, barely sleeping, getting up only to use the bathroom.

His cell is ridiculous, a clean and soft bed with white sheets on one side, a toilet and sink on the other. He even has a mirror, made of metal and fixed to the wall, enough to see the blur of the bags under his eyes, the disarray of blond hair that is getting too long. The room has three walls made of cold, grey bricks that always seem humid; the fourth wall is icy metal bars from where he can see one guard watching him at all times. The space is too big, too empty. He has too much, so much more than what he deserves.

They let him shower alone in a long room filled with nothing but showerheads, walls as cold as the ones that confine his sleep. The guards don’t follow him. He has privacy there. Privacy for a war criminal that got Terrans and Martians killed. It’s ridiculous and humiliating, it’s nonsense and madness and it makes him so angry that he hugs himself, nails digging fresh wounds into his skin while he wonders if he can get away with staying under the cold water until he’s as blue and dead as those lying roses.

\---

How come these people treat him better than the Martians ever did before he had any power?

They don’t question him for staying in bed, don’t yell at him to get his attention, don’t insult him at any moment, don’t force him to eat some more. They seem to be respecting his wishes, leaving him on his own. They are cold, guarding him from afar, their indifferent politeness pointedly unnerving. Their faces are always carefully blank and he wonders if Kaizuka taught them that trick only to exasperate him.

He gets the feeling that if he were to complain about his clothes, about the fabric being too thin for the weather, they could give him a sweater or something thicker. That if he complained about the insipid water they give him, they’d offer him tea once a week. He doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t want such commodities.

He’s so sick of all this already and it hasn’t even been a week. He knows because they inform him of the date every morning, for some reason. And he hates it, their consideration, the lack of hostility in their treatment. Why won’t they interrogate him, torture him, make him pay for his sins? Why do they let him have a peaceful existence? Why do they feed him anything other than crumbs and leftovers?

He’s humiliated by all of this, by everything. It angers him and annoys him beyond comprehension. It shouldn’t be like this. Even his cold cell is too much, too comfortable for a traitor that had led his soldiers to death, when he was the one that should have perished. Not his allies, not the men and women that gave their lives for his lost cause.

_He_ is a lost cause. Everyone would be better realizing that. He doesn’t matter, not as an enemy, not as a soldier, a friend, a leader, a son… and definitely not as a hero.

He should be dead.

But maybe he doesn’t deserve even that.

\---

It’s no wonder that he’s completely fed up by the time Kaizuka Inaho comes again, appearing through the transparent tunnel that leads to the joke that is his visitor’s room. Why do they have such a room.  It’s not like princess Asseylum will come to see him. Why can’t the almighty general see him in his room? Why do they bother moving him to this different cage?

Kaizuka greets him and takes a seat, initiating a meaningless talk about the weather. He informs him of the forecast, that it’ll rain in the next days. He doesn’t seem too happy about it, stretching his already long sleeves over his hands. Slaine doesn’t care for that, doesn’t even try to register his words. He looks ahead, piercing him with his eyes, the icy cold from his cell already ingrained in his bones.

“Kill me”

He says, nothing more and nothing less. This is all he’s trying to communicate since they were fighting in space, and he still only receives a blank stare that crisps his nerves. Kaizuka acts as if he hasn’t understood his words, his intent, as if he has no idea of what Slaine is going through. He’s going crazy with guilt, remorse, pain, and this clown just wants him to keep wasting air for who knows how long.

“Kill me!”

He yells, hitting the table with both hands, his palms stinging from the impact. Kaizuka doesn’t move, doesn’t bat an eyelash. What. What does this man want from him. _What is it_.

His blood is boiling, his muscles sore with the tension that accumulates in them with each passing hour. He’s stealing time from the lives of his death men, he’s. He’s dead. Why isn’t he dead.

He yells, tears of frustration falling from his wild eyes. He stands. Kicks the chair he was using. Looks at Kaizuka again waiting for a reaction.

There’s nothing.

Save for rage.

Slaine turns around violently, his back to the other, and hits the walls with his naked fists over. And over. Until they hurt. Until there’s blood. And he keeps at it until a guard comes to stop him, taking him away while he wails at his luck, at this “life” that Kaizuka has gifted him. He cries and screams, doesn’t let anyone attend to his wounds.

His white sheets taint red from his knuckles, get soaked with saliva when he bites them to stop his shouts. He forgets about the general, doesn’t question when did he leave, how much did he saw.

Slaine is left alone in his cell, alone in the dark with his thoughts keeping the flame of hatred and impotence alive.

\---

There have been several meetings during the past few days and Inaho is tired. They don’t need him there, but he has to attend anyway. They don’t strategize anymore, they just gather generals so the higher ups can sense if any of them is looking to rise in arms against them. The U.F.E. proclaims that there’s peace, but there’s more tension than ever among its ranks, since the common enemy being less of a threat means time to think about personal gains. It makes these meetings annoying, when politicians approach him, trying to establish dominance until they sense his lack of ambition and immediately turn to offer him positions they know he’ll reject, wanting to take pictures shaking hands. He never wanted any of this, the bureaucracy, the fame. He was just doing his part.

Although all of that doesn’t matter when he gets into the car, Yuki’s silence louder than any complaint she could make, as she drives him to the prison.

It’s been over a week since his last visit, but it feels like longer when the warden informs him that Slaine still barely eats, sleeps or gets up. He has been away, unable to do anything, endless and meaningless meetings taking up all of his time. (He could’ve been there every day, and still be powerless).

He salutes the guards and walks into the complex, taking the men’s unchanging expressions as a sign. Every step he takes dulls his mind, cold walls enclosing his heart, building barriers around it so he won’t explode in bottled up feelings. Everything is the same. Slaine is probably the same (so different from what he remembers).

He’s caring a chess board, and even though it’s a long shot, he has to try it, anything.

Slaine is already sitting in his visitor’s room, hands on his lap and eyes lost. He looks pale, his hair more close to white than ever. He doesn’t react when Inaho sits across from him, placing the board on the table, opening it and setting each piece on its square.

“How’ve you been?”

Click. Click. Tap. Every pawn is on its place.

“The warden still complains about your meals. You should properly eat them”

Tap. The horse. Click. A tower. He’s restless on his chair.

“You don’t look so bad though”

He swallows, clang. The last piece is Slaine’s queen.

“Your turn”, he says. At the same time, Slaine is saying: “Hasn’t it been enough?”

Inaho stops and looks ahead. His face is blank, unimpressed, but he can feel his heart pounding, can feel his body shaking with the force of it. He doesn’t know if he treasures or dreads this chance for a talk, that it’s the first time Slaine has said something other than the words “dead” or “kill” to him.

“I’ve stolen, deceived, killed. I sacrificed many of my own”

It’s a whisper that doesn’t increase in volume, but deepens in how much of his broken soul Slaine puts in each word.

“Please”

“No, you’ll live” escapes his lips before he has a moment to think about it. It’s a knee reflex, by now craved so profoundly into his brain that it’s become a conviction, a goal, an objective.

“Why?!” Slaine’s palm slams the table, making the pieces cackle, Inaho’s king about to fall.

“You’ll live”, he repeats, his tone now composed. What can he say, when confronted about this? What _can_ he say, when the answer haunts him at night? When Slaine is watching, wanting to be doomed? When Inaho only wants to give him hope, a reason to stay that he can’t even begin to comprehend, let alone grasp?

“She told me to talk to you. Princess Asseylum”

Slaine seems to stop breathing, his eyes wide at the mere mention of that name; that’s the power that the empress still has on him. Inaho says it as if it explains something, like it makes sense.

The silence is enough indication of the absurdity they face. Slaine’s raged pants are the best proof of how illogical the situation is, of how vague the implications are. What _exactly_ does that mean? What does she want? What did she hope to achieve by tying Slaine to a life without meaning, to a life he rejects and actively looks to end?

(And above all, Inaho can’t help the feeling of betrayal that infects his heart, and what a ridiculous emotion to have.) He continues, because he can’t tell everything, but he can’t let Slaine think only of her now either.

“That’s just an excuse, though. I wanted to understand”

That seems to bring Slaine back to reality, back to his transparent cage. He can’t understand the desires of a person he has idealized for so long, but he can accept the selfishness of a man he has come to hate. It doesn’t make it any better, it doesn’t fill the void of desperation in his chest, doesn’t make it any lighter, but it does shed some reason on the chaos of his meaningless existence.

And Slaine couldn’t have imagined that he’d be Inaho Kaizuka’s prisoner. Not even in his worst nightmares would he have thought that his miserable life would come to this pointless end. But above all, no matter how laughable it seems, he can’t help but feel some solace, some calm.

Even if he doesn’t know what to make out of Kaizuka’s confession.


	4. To stand (and fall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk and Slaine’s questions are usually dry and sarcastic. They chat and Slaine will request to be killed less often. Inaho will take comfort on that, because he knows that it could be worse. Infinitely worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while, but here’s a new chapter! If you’re following the story, don’t worry about me dropping it, because I’m committed to finishing it. I’ve just been really busy.  
> Betaed by limyth!

He sits on his bed and side eyes the tray they leave just outside his cell.

It’s a long while before he sighs and gets up to take some of the food. He thinks it’s his imagination, but the guard seems to sigh too, his posture relaxing just by a fraction.

\---

When Inaho comes again, Slaine is waiting for him on his chair, looking bored. It’s an improvement from his empty eyes, but the fierce set of his frame is still in place.

The general brings the chess board again, and his prisoner just looks at him, too puzzled to voice his disbelief. He stares and crosses his arms over his chest for the whole hour Kaizuka spends playing against himself.

Slaine sighs, but otherwise plays the silent card, containing his annoyance behind a mask of apathy.

There’s not much to the visit. Neither says a word. Neither yells or hits something, and neither leaves with their heart heavier.

\---

The unsettling aftermath of their last conversation doesn’t last forever, and soon the day comes when Slaine speaks again. He seems to have thought his words carefully, a bitter grimace on his face, dyeing his words in sarcasm.

“Why do you keep coming?”

It’s Inaho’s turn to move Slaine’s pawn.

“I want to understand”

“But you don’t listen to anything I say”

“You don’t talk much”

Slaine looks at him, unimpressed.

“I’ve said enough”, he claims with a finality that chills Inaho’s blood. His posture changes after this. He sits straight, chin up. This isn’t Inaho’s prisoner anymore, it’s count Slaine Troyard Saazbaum, proud heir, predatory wolf. He continues, his voice a clear thread of perfectly pronounced words. “You don’t need to do a thing, general Kaizuka. Just provide me with a tool or order your guards to stand down. I’ll certainly find a way”

He says, the prim figure of diplomacy, his voice amiable, his demeanor polite. He waits, fingers intertwined over the table, a smile on his lips while he observes Inaho. The little act is useless.

“That’s impossible”, the general answers, looking down at the board and moving one of his pieces.

“Why-”

“It’s impossible” _I want you alive_. (I need you alive.) “I still need to know”

“There’s nothing to know”, he sighs, his breath trembling almost unperceptively. “Nothing more than this” Slaine mutters to himself, for a second letting the smile slip from his lips. He recovers fast, his eyes sharp and icy. They make Inaho fear for his future actions because they remind him that this is, in fact, a dangerous man.

“You’ll get tired of this soon enough, general Kaizuka”

He announces like a prophet, not a doubt in the bitter curve of his mouth.

But his stance and confidence isn’t the worst. The worst part is that Inaho can feel the toll of the situation on himself, can feel the ice like daggers piercing through his heart. It’s been two weeks, just two weeks. He can’t help to wonder how much more he can take, how much longer until Slaine’s prophecy comes true. How much longer until his prisoner uses his clever mind to terminate his life.

He has thought of everything, considered every variable, it’s what he does and he’s sure that there’s no way Slaine can carry on with his intent. However, just before he closes his eyes every night, the fleeting feeling of _what if_ crosses his mind.

What if Slaine already has a way and is just playing with this head? What if he missed something, what if one of the guards isn’t as reliable as he thought he was? What if he wakes up to a call from the warden? What if he closes his eyes and Slaine’s existence vanishes from his sight as inevitably as the image from his dream?

\---

It is certainly unusual for Inaho Kaizuka to lose, and he has never been one to give up, but he knows defeat when he sees it. It’s just statistical data, everyone is bound to lose sometimes, even him. The only thing you can do is try with all the resources you have, but if they fail or you overlook any detail, a good general must know when to retreat.

That’s how he comes to terms with the fact that Slaine will not play chess against him: it’s not exactly a failure, but strategy demands a retreat. The exercise has had a positive effect though, because they have slowly started to make small talk, comforted by the distraction of chess when the air gets heavy or their words falter.

Their conversation never amounts to more than scattered words, sometimes mere impressions, but they manage to clear some of the tension of their encounters.

“I can see it’s raining again”, Slaine had said one day. Inaho had been ecstatic, regardless of his wet uniform, since the blond rarely started their short lived conversations.

“Yes”

“Do you have anything against umbrellas?”, he had asked, like he usually would, posing a question that ranged from indifferent to hostile, hands always on his lap.

“It’s a short walk from the car to the entrance, so it’d be a bother”

“I see”

He had commented, like he usually would, simple words to fill the air. Slaine would mention how that seems uncharacteristic, seeing as Kaizuka very obviously dislikes the cold and he can’t be comfortable in wet clothes. He would mention it, but he doesn’t want him to know that he’s noticed.

They talk and Slaine’s questions are usually dry and sarcastic. They chat and Slaine will request to be killed less often. Inaho will take comfort on that, because he knows that it could be worse. Infinitely worse.

\---

Inaho arrived with a minor headache thundering on the back of his skull, one too many restless nights weighing heavily on his body. He sat, back to the transparent door, and massaged his temple with two fingers while he waited for the guards to bring Slaine in. It had been a month now, maybe one and a half, and he couldn’t explain to himself why he kept visiting, much less to Yuki. She had been taking turns with Calm to drive him there and Inaho was somehow happy that the man didn’t ask as many questions as his sister.

The left side of his head hurt.

He heard steps approaching and placed both hands over the table, waiting.

Every second seemed longer than the week before, longer and longer until he couldn’t count his breaths without losing his patience. He was on edge, delving dangerously close into the insanity of paranoia.

He looked at his hands when the heavy door opened, trying to focus his sight on them and his hearing on Slaine’s softer footsteps entering the room. The first signs of the other’s presence always gave him a sense of peace, of better times to come, right before he actually saw him and remembered the hatred that reflected on his eyes, his unpredictability.

He started to turn, ready to receive a look of loathing, when the hollow sound of wrestling put the world on still. There was shouting and struggling and he was faced with his prisoner trying to reach for one of the guard’s gun, using all his strength on holding his arms. The guard fought back, trying to keep Slaine in line, but the man obviously had training. His feet were perfectly positioned to give him a solid base, each step calculated to corner the other. He dodged a hit and blocked another, threw a punch that was a fraction of a second away from landing. The guard tried with a knee to his stomach, but Slaine contorted with grace, avoiding it and getting ready to kick.

The other guard shot.

Time stopped.

His voice wouldn’t come out.

Slaine’s body drew a painful and brief arc, interrupted by the first guard’s arms, who took him and prevented his fall.

“What did you do?!” Inaho heard himself yell, his head killing him, his empty left eye about to explode.

The guard that had shot went to Inaho, showing him the bullet. It was a tranquilizer, the standard issue for the prison’s personnel. He panted, close to fainting, grabbing the guard’s arm for support.

He talked, gave orders to take Slaine back to his cell and took the hallway out, holding himself up on the cold walls. The air is brisk, the sky is cloudy, and as Yuki sees him barely standing, she hurries to his side to help him get into the car, demanding to know what happened, one second away from entering the prison and beating the blond traitor herself.

Inaho thinks he talks, tells her to stop, but he falls unconscious in the back of the car, the darkness that engulfs him making him unable to verify if Yuki is still by his side.

\---

Slaine is lying on the sand, the sea gently brushing his feet from time to time. The sky opens above him, dark blue and filled with stars, bright and beautiful dots of light seemingly inviting him to join them, to shine far away from everything and everyone and indulge in an existence free of thought. If he had perished among the stardust he could have been like them, forever drifting away in the invisible pull of cosmos…

A laughing voice gets his attention and he closes his eyes to hear, the far away glow momentarily forgotten. The cold breeze carries the sound at odd intervals, causing the hair on his arms to stand, his chest to shiver. It’s too brisk, it’s too late, he shouldn’t be where he is and the voice seems to be calling for him. It sounds familiar, almost unsettlingly so, but he can’t identify it because the sheer happiness of it is completely foreign.

He’s about to get up when the wind rises and he has to sit and hug himself, two laughing voices filling his ears, so overwhelming that even the crash of waves dies out in the distance. His hands goes to his head, trying to shield him from the sound, and he opens his eyes only to find a red sky and the stars that seemed so friendly before now turned into millions of judging eyes. He swallows and clutches his chest, curls his fingers around his silver pendant so hard that he’s sure his skin should break, but there’s nothing to feel, just the echo of a reality too bright to be his-

Slaine gasps awake.

There’s no cool sand under his back, but a padded mattress that keeps his body warm. He’s in his cell, tied to life and unable to fight. He tries to slow down his breathing, because everything seems covered by mist, his mind in a haze and thoughts drifting apart.

It takes him a moment to remember why his limbs feel so heavy, why he feels like he’s waking up from a long and deep sleep. That Kaizuka sure is diligent, he didn’t expect the tranquilizers.

He sighs through thin, slightly parted lips that are too pale and chapped, flexing his fingers methodically to determine how much control he has over his body. He takes his time, looking up at the grey bricks that have been the only sky he’s known for two months.

He sits on the bed and shakes away the distant sound of waves.

He gets up and walks barefooted towards the sink, splashing his face with water and letting it drip down his arms and wet his chest.

The metal of his mirror reflects the contour of his face, the dark bags under his eyes so bold that they can be seen even in the blurry surface.

He hears movement out of the bars, listens to the clatter of a tray being left on the usual place. But he ignores it and, for the first time since his arrival, takes a minute or fifty to look up at the high, tiny and lonely window of his cell.

The sky is clouded, loaded with soon to fall rain. He looks at it, his green eyes reflecting nothing, no light of any kind to be found in them. He stands and stares and loses track of time. He stares and pretends he doesn’t hear the squawk of gulls in the distance.

\---

Slaine wakes up to the fading echo of waves breaking on the shore. He’s lying on his side, still uncomfortable on a mattress that’s too cozy for him. As he opens his eyes, he realizes that it’s morning by the little shifts of light in the room. At night, everything is dark blue safe for the contrast of white coming from the artificial lights, but in sunny mornings nothing can escape the sickening shade of warm orange that tries to wash even over the cold metal surfaces. It’s a hopeless effort, if you ask him; some things are too dead to be brought back to life even by the most stubborn ray of warmth.

His sight focuses on a foreign figure, a strange view in the unchanging landscape of eternal grey and moist blues. _You’re earlier than usual_ , he thinks. There’s no need to ask why this visit is taking place here, as opposed to the usual place. It’s punishment or precaution after his last stunt. How boring.

Kaizuka is sitting calmly outside his cell, his usual chair relocated. His brown, apathetic eyes are fixated on him, so dull that they make his blood boil. He turns around in bed, hoping that he’ll leave if he ignores him long enough. He doesn’t have such luck, of course.

Minutes pass until he hears a familiar clatter and frowns. When the words come, his frown deepens.

“Your breakfast is here”, the general announces. For long seconds nothing is heard, but Slaine knows that won’t last. He waits, carefully breathing in and out, trying to mimic the pace of sleep, as if to convince himself that he can go back to slumber. It’s about to work, he can feel his consciousness slipping from him, when the other talks again.

“Should I take it inside?”, he asks, already standing up with the tray in his hands.

Curse Kaizuka, why can’t he give up? He’d voice his thoughts, but he’s too tired for it; he’d only waste his energy to end up being ignored, as always. To think that two months of the man have been enough to wear him down, to teach him how unwilling he is to listen to anything he disagrees with. The man is so set on his ideas, so blind to anything different from what he believes, that he won’t shut up even after facing hours of a complete lack of response. Apparently, nothing can deter him from his goal. Whatever that is.

“I’ll have them put you on serum if you don’t start eating better”, his tone masks all emotions and Slaine can’t fathom what it hides, only that there _is_ something behind it all. There must be, because no man can be so firm in their intent if they don’t have a purpose. “Given the situation”, he adds, and Slaine is quite sure there’s something akin to remorse coloring his voice, “that will imply tying you to the bed”

There’s yet another second of silence. Slaine opens his eyes slowly, dreading that annoying shade of orange on his walls, and sighs, but Inaho only sees his shoulders slump. The prisoner gets up with sluggish movements and sits on the bed, his bare feet touching the floor. They are pale, too white on the dark bricks, with red tiptoes that flinch against the cold. To Inaho they look easy to break, like a precious and fragile statue of glass that’s been faltering for too long, waiting to fall from its high pedestal and become nothing but shattered pieces of its past beauty and glory.

Kaizuka blinks, suddenly coming back to the present to realize that he’s been staring, and looks up, finding Slaine’s eyes on him. They look deceptively empty, but Inaho feels them calculating, trying to read him.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t come again”, Slaine says when they make eye contact.

“I’m persistent”, he answers. He hasn’t moved from his spot, holding the tray in front of the cell’s opening, the soldier next to him frozen in the action of turning the heavy key on the lock.

“I’m tireless and have all the time in the world”

Kaizuka doesn’t answer with words, but his eyes and expression are clear: he too has all the time in the world. And he has the resolve to wait as long as it takes.

“What do you expect to find?”

“I want to know”

“But what”

Slaine spits without inflection. He seems tired and frustrated, fed up and ready to ignore him again and be over with another one of their pointless chats. Inaho can’t blame him, he’s still unsure about how to answer to that. He tries anyway, since maybe by sheer force of will he’ll be able to convince himself that he knows what he’s doing.

“I want to understand”

“I told you”, Slaine’s eyes become sharp and clear, green vivid with conviction. “There’s nothing to know or understand. There’s nothing more than what you see”

 _I don’t know what I’m seeing_ , Inaho doesn’t say. Instead, quietness falls over them again, and Slaine sighs once more before standing to retrieve the tray that the general is holding. His steps are firm and it doesn’t look like the cold floor has any effect on him. They look at each other from across the bars, dueling to extract even the tiniest bit of information, without considering their surroundings and the guard that silently retreats.

They stare at each other until Slaine approaches and takes the tray from the opening that has the specific shape of it, mindful of his hands, of how close they come to Kaizuka’s. He turns and goes back to sit on the bed with his breakfast on his lap, the few steps he takes making a soft sound that’s barely there.

Inaho watches him go, taking his chance to swallow without being seen.

Breakfast in prison is usually soup, a piece of bread and fruit. Slaine looks down at it, somehow managing to showcase despise and disinterest at the same time. The ever-present gag reflex he feels at food is fading, but he thinks he’ll never get rid of the guilt of being able to eat at all.

He takes his spoon and starts eating slowly, waiting for Kaizuka to declare this visit a success and leave, but instead, the general continues to talk, as if he had never stopped, as if he was giving a report.

“No one has any information of you before you started working under Saazbaum’s orders”, he mentions; Slaine wonders how many people he questioned. “Most people even ignore your relationship with Doctor Troyard. They all seem eager to explain that you were a Terran who didn’t know his place, a Terran with high ambitions”

“That seems right” he says, his spoon diving into the soup once more before entering his mouth.

“It doesn’t” Slaine just eats. Inaho thinks that maybe this is what it takes to make him eat, to distract him with questions he doesn’t want to answer. “You were trying to save the Princess”

“I needed her for my plans”

“No”

“Why do you keep questioning me if you’re not going to believe a word I say?”, he looks up only for one second, a single eyebrow rising in question.

“I’ll believe you when your words match your actions”

“There’s not much I can do in here”, he states, a bitter smile on his thin lips. He takes a bite of his bread, then licks the crumbs that stick to his skin. Inaho looks, he’s looking more intently than how he should, but there’s no helping it. It’s not something he can explain, therefore it’s not something he knows how to control.

“You’re trying to commit suicide”

Silence.

“You’re not trying to break free”

“What’s your point?”

“You want to die because you think that’s what you deserve. If you really were nothing but a conspirator, you’d be trying to get out, to have power again. You’d be negotiating with me, offering information in exchange of goods, but you refuse the simplest of meals, refuse to talk about yourself, don’t try to justify your actions. You’re living in guilt, you’re-”

He stops. Slaine is very carefully not looking at him, still as a puppet without strings, lying motionless on the floor, waiting for life and purpose.

“You’re not what you want me to believe”, his hands rest on his lap, and he looks so certain that it’s unsettling. “You’re not what you want to believe you are”

Slaine doesn’t miss a beat, he’s ready to counter that shameless statement. It sounds too much like the truth. He won’t have any of it.

“You sound like a rebel, Kaizuka Inaho. Want my help for your plans of world domination?”

“Would you help me?”

“Of course n-”

 _Of course not, because you don’t have the ambition_ , is what Inaho’s eyes are saying, a triumphant gleam lighting them up. Slaine stops to stare, puzzled by  the starts of a smile, and feels like it’s the first time he gives in and allows himself to look at the face of his enemy. It’s disturbing, how much he sees. It’s disorienting, because he’s not sure if Kaizuka is showing him or if he’s become better at reading him and he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t know if it’s worst that they’re becoming familiar or that the general is letting his guard down around him.

“You are my enemy, Kaizuka Inaho, you said so yourself” he ends his soup and stands. “I wouldn’t help you because my honor is tainted enough already”

Slaine deposits the tray in the opening, waiting until Inaho gets up too and takes it.

“Thanks for the meal” he says, honest without noticing, distracted by the effort to pretend he is something he isn’t. This is the first time he’s let his mask crack and show a flash of kindness, unknowingly shattering his façade forever.

But it won’t be the last.


	5. From the ashes (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He breathes in the musty air, lies there for some more. A few more minutes, a few more hours, it doesn’t matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost a year? But there's finally an update so yey? Please note that I added self-harm to the tags! Betaed by limyth.

Slaine wakes up one morning with the odd urge to exercise, to move and feel something other than ache. His muscles have lost form, his arms thin and bony after too much time lying on the bed, and one too many meals half eaten. This sudden need is strange because he has been ready to dispose of his body for a long time now, the months living in the grey cell being nothing but a useless extension of his life.

He’s spent his days looking into nothing, sight lost in mindless contemplation, picking at the nails they won’t let him cut by himself. The number of things he wants to do with his body that they’ll allow him is low, but luckily he can still scratch too hard, pinch until even his short nails can get through skin and tear piece after piece of flesh. It’s never enough to lift the weight off his shoulders, never enough to ease his soul into an endless sleep. It’s nothing but a reflex, nothing but the undying wish to disappear.

He doesn’t think much of it, just lets his hands wander over his arms and legs, over his scarred chest, fingertips grazing the skin before his blunt nails find their way into his flesh, the dull pain a distant sensation. It’s nothing, really, nothing but a reflex.

It’s a shame that Kaizuka doesn’t look at him, seeing his reaction would be interesting. Slaine could get some satisfaction from showing the general that despite all his efforts, there are still ways for him to work against himself. Would his face even show any reaction at all when confronted with the angry red of his little wounds?

It was nothing but a fleeting thought. The reality of it was that it didn’t matter, because nothing did anymore, and his cold hands would keep drawing meaningless patterns over his body, leaving traces of inexistent constellations in their wake.

Slaine is pale, each passing day without the sun touching his skin making him paler. He might as well be translucent, which only serves to make his scars more evident, tiny dots of red coloring his arms and legs, even his feet, wherever he gets his hands on while losing time in thought, fingers finding skin to break out of habit, tainting his nails in permanent red, leaving stains on the sheets.

Today, he starts by sitting on the bed, indifferent to the splash of blood that always lurks at the corner of his eyes, and considers his options. It’s apparent that Kaizuka won’t let him renounce to his life, bent on his stupid resolve to keep him alive, so getting in shape doesn’t mean that he’s giving up. In fact, it could prove to be useful if there’s ever a chance to confront his guards again. The only way of winning this battle may be to outmatch the men and their general in force.

He gets up, stretches his numb limbs, rolls his head. His bones crack and his skin hurts, but he lies on the cold floor and does the first crunch.

\---

A soft and rhythmical sound reaches his ears from the hallway leading to the cell. It gets clearer and louder as he gets closer, the hard, punctuated pants unmistakably indicating some form of exercise. Kaizuka’s polished shoes join in the symphony, echoing on the stone, resonating against the walls that swallow and erase the noise.

It’s the fifth time the general has arrived to the same scene: drops of sweat dripping on the floor, a half-eaten breakfast abandoned on a tray close to Slaine’s feet, his shirt discarded over the bed. His blond hair falls over his face in waves, dancing with the movement, long and untamed. His body is taut, resenting the effort that the push-ups demand. His muscles pull, tendons straining with the effort of sustaining his bones, his clavicle glistening even in the dim, orange glow of morning light.

It’s an impossible picture, a glimmer of something that shouldn’t be. It’s life forcibly painted in warm colors, when the palette should consist of white, black and blue. It’s a beautiful dissonance, a mirage in the driest of deserts.

It’s an illusion that left Inaho speechless the first time he stumbled upon it, his astonishment unrelated to the spectacle that the prisoner’s lean figure in motion presented. Instead, what caught his attention were the scars, scattered in unreadable constellations, joining the long, paler ones that already covered Slaine’s back and chest from before his imprisonment. They are impressive, its gravity evident and unavoidable over the white planes of his skin, ranging from bleeding red to pale pink. Those carefully carved wounds that attempt to shatter Kaizuka’s resolve because they are proof of Slaine’s; they are the ones that eat his words.

The general has heard about them from the guards, how could he not, they have a duty to report back to him. He’s known from the start and has thought of restraining Slaine, confining him to gloves that would stop this hopeless loop, but something tells him that that could break Slaine forever, that denying him this damaging freedom could turn him more radical, more desperate and eager for the punishment he thinks he deserves.

Kaizuka’s been looking for a way to deal with them, and luckily, it has appeared without his intervention. Because Slaine doesn’t stop his exercise when the general reaches his cell, doesn’t inquire about his staring, doesn’t have his hands free to hurt himself and the wounds gradually become less and start to heal. They don’t disappear, of course, but they’re far less prominent than before.

That’s why he retreats, incapable of interrupting and risking a break down or an attack. He doesn’t think he can do much more, not when there are a million and zero words whispered against his lips, the air in the room not nearly enough for him to speak even one of them. It’s a strategic retreat that he’s glad to make, grateful for once for Slaine’s complete lack of interest in him.

As he leaves, Slaine’s steady breathing follows him through the hallways, echoing along his footsteps, still clear in his ears when he gets into the car. The image of that impossibly pale, battered body lasts longer in his memory, still with him when he closes his eyes at night, when he fails to forget the blunt nails’ fading red, the clear neck moist with effort, the salty scent of sweat a ghost on his tongue.

His mind is full with thoughts he can’t allow himself to have, so he tries uselessly to forget, to think of something other than glistening skin and soft looking hair dancing with life. After long nights of sweating hands and aborted actions, it’s time to reschedule his visits once more.

\---

Inaho greets the guards around noon with a nod, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater to cover more of his hands. The time is right after lunch has been served, a strange sense of peace in the premises. Everything is in order, each prisoner in their cell, their food already there, no anomalies to report. He walks the known path to Slaine’s cell with confident steps, paying no mind to the munching of some of the guards that bring homemade snacks.

According to his calculations, this should be the perfect time to visit, considering the new data: exercise means an increase in endorphins and the need to ingest calories, which should mean that Slaine will be in a better disposition, tired and actually eager to eat.

When he reaches the cell, his prediction appears to be right.

Slaine is sitting cross-legged and bare chested over the bed, the tray placed in front of him and a spoonful of soup on the way to his lips. Upon seeing Kaizuka, he rises one pale eyebrow, but otherwise continues as if nothing had happened, eating slowly and with purpose.

Inaho sits outside the cell and observes, trying to dissimulate that he’s staring at Slaine’s arms and the flex of his newly gained biceps, or at his blond, disheveled hair falling under his shoulders, caressing his neck. He waits until the guard brings lunch for him, the same his prisoner is eating, and the enemies look at each other without making eye contact until the soldier has to clear his throat to get his general’s attention.

Kaizuka takes the tray and thanks him, taking his usual seat and crossing his legs to place the food on his lap. It’s not the most comfortable position, but he doesn’t mind. Not when after a few heartbeats, they talk.

“This is really tasty”

Inaho’s voice is dry, hopeful, and he waits patiently while having his meal. The soup is gone soon enough, even if he’s taking his time. The vegetables are fresh and not salty, the flavor actually quite bland, but he’ll take it over an excess of sodium any day. As far as he knows, the menu doesn’t change much, so he wonders if Slaine gets tired of the food, if he should make arrangements for new dishes.

This is a prison though. That would probably be inappropriate.

“It’s good”

Slaine’s voice makes his heart skip a beat. He had thought his words had fallen on deaf ears, like they usually do, and he’s excited that that doesn’t seem to be the case.

“How’ve you been?”

Inaho’s voice is still dry, but more hopeful than before, and he’s still expectant even though he has to wait again. He’s rewarded when, sooner than before, Slaine’s words graze his ears and he finds himself feeling warm all over, an unknown tingling on the tip of his fingers.

“Fine”

Slaine talks before biting a mouthful of bread and then munches slowly, making use of all the time he knows he has. No one will hurry him here, no one will tell him how he’s a waste of space, or how he’s a useless lowlife. No one but himself.

“Do you need anything?”

Inaho’s heartbeat is so loud, he should see the prison’s doctor, this can’t be normal and it isn’t, he’s sure. He’s never known this kind of excitement, the feeling of being on edge in the presence of someone, waiting for any sign in their expression, seizing each gesture and shift of breathing. Not for the first time, he feels greedy and selfish, so unlike himself that he’s seriously considering visiting a professional.

Slaine, unaware of the general’s internal turmoil and his gradual changes, answers as always, painfully ignorant of how his own voice is no longer the same, how his tone is softer, more kind. More like himself.

“No”

Inaho feels like a boy when he swallows his anxiousness, when he can’t mask the hope that’s started to bloom in his chest. When he announces, eagerly and earnest: “I’ll come again tomorrow”

And it doesn’t even matter how Slaine reacts, or how he doesn’t. All that matters is that he speaks, that he directs his words at Inaho.

“Thanks for the meal”

\---

_The stars fall over my head…_

Slaine wakes up, if he ever fell asleep, with an arm over his face and a tear sliding into his hair. It’s cold, everything is, from the walls, to his bed, his heart and his bones. His flesh doesn’t feel more real than the weight in his chest and his eyes see nothing but an ocean of fallen stars.

He breathes in the musty air, lies there for some more. A few more minutes, a few more hours, it doesn’t matter.

\---

He is a soldier, dragged into war without an option. It was inevitable from the moment he was born into a broken world, filled with hateful humans that don’t care for children without parents to rely on.

He is a soldier. He’s seen death up close, fought for his life, heard bones crushing and agonizing last words being uttered in long moans of pain. Cruelty sleeps at his bedside and has guided his hands into murder when his conscience would’ve stopped him. He knows how grey the world is and how distorted it can get.

The world.

Not a place for love, but a place for hatred. Not a place for peace, but a place for war. No home, no friends, no family are safe from being ruthlessly torn apart until even the light is an unrecognizable and far away gleam of rotten hope.

Not even a place, but an endless road plagued by battles and obstacles to surpass, wrenching pain gripping tired limbs, numbing morals and killing souls.

He knows the world and himself. Knows not to hope.

And yet he does.

\---

He had scrambled eggs for breakfast that morning. He also had coffee, even if he didn’t like it all that much, but it had been a busy couple of weeks, low on sleep and high on appointments, so the little bust was needed. Today was probably going to be as long and exhausting as the previous days.

Yuki had been strangely amiable, none of her usual questions charging the air with impossible answers. She didn’t tell him how he should stop visiting Troyard, that it only drained him more, that it wasn’t part of his duties and no one was getting anything from it. None of that. She just smiled and ruffled his hair, cheerful like in the old times of school before he became a soldier, before he became unreasonably invested in an enemy that had almost killed him, that could still kill him.

Inaho had enjoyed his peaceful awakening, had smiled, had hoped for a good, uneventful day. It was good that he wasn’t one to laugh at ironies, or he would have choked with it.

“Will you eat out again?”, came the sudden but expected inquiry, Yuki looking away to hide the shadow settling in her eyes, voice restrained with unspoken reprimands.

“Yes, we’re making progress with the communication and he’s generally more agreeable after his exercises”, he reported, sounding reasonable and justified, arranging the cuffs of his jacket before pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his knuckles.

A tense silence overcame the siblings. Now, _this_ felt more like usual and he dreaded how this was routine now, resented the tightness that always settled in the pit of his stomach when his sister couldn’t help but hate the man Inaho needed to go back to. He wished he could explain, that the words coming out of his mouth didn’t sound like excuses even to his ears, wished for reasons, for something to validate his actions beyond a shadow of a doubt.

But such things didn’t exist in his dream based, almost feverish decisions. So he refrained from words and gathered his documents mechanically, setting them efficiently in his briefcase. Then he surprised Yuki by kissing her gently on the cheek, leaving without daring to look her in the eye, door closing behind his tense back and his sister’s whispered “Nao”.

\---

The car ride was silent, Calm munching happily on the sandwich Inaho always brought him. The scenery was the usual: apartments, hospital and houses, people walking down the streets, going to work or school, living their lives in the best way possible, finally settling into what could be called “times of peace”. The city gave way to less and less houses, trees and fields dominating the picture, the breeze turning brisk and salty.

The beach had looked somehow warmer that morning, the waves receding after last night’s pleamar, leaving space for their white trail of foam. The gulls were squawking in a repetitive rhythm, their song becoming too loud at times, making Inaho flinch. He sighed and got to work. He needed to go over some documents before getting to the prison, so he scattered them around him in the backseat, mildly annoyed at the old-fashioned military protocols that requested signatures and prints.

Calm talked idly about the weather, informing him that a storm was coming their way and the temperatures would drop more than usual. Inaho didn’t like this northern city’s coldness, but its location made it isolated and important enough that no one thought twice when a high security prison was installed in the vicinity. It was just a strategic play, so his personal opinions on the environment were trifling.

He was about to sign a report on the prison’s expenses, that was clearly pointless and modified to hide Slaine’s very existence, when Calm’s clipped voice interrupted him.

“So how’s…” he stopped, swallowed, doubted. “How’s the inmate?”

Inaho lifted his sight to look at his friend through the rear mirror. Calm was, and the irony was present again, nervous, fidgeting and most likely second guessing his question and thinking of taking it back. He opened his mouth, a forced smile already curving his lips. Inaho talked first.

“He’s progressing well”, he answered, looking back down to his documents. “His eating and sleeping habits have improved and there hasn’t been a new incident”

“Good…” was what he said, but Inaho knew that a jumble of _why would you want to make him better_ was going through his mind. Thankfully, Calm was first and foremost his friend, loyal and caring. “Doesn’t he need… medical attention? Like a psychologist?”

_You’re not the one who should be doing this_ , his frown said. He must have been talking with the guards then.

“The higher-ups don’t think his wellbeing should be a concern. They just want to keep him caged”. Paperwork was ridiculous, why was this form even necessary.

“I see…” _why isn’t that enough for you?_

“If there was a psychologist on payroll I could make them visit, but no one’s…” as fragile? Damaged? Haunted? “… in his state”

“What if you hire a psychologist for the guards? They’re constantly dealing with the people who ordered to destroy their planet, that can’t be an easy task”. _It clearly isn’t easy for you_.

At this, Inaho finally looked up.  That could work. He _would_ make that work, it was perfectly logical and could save some time and money for the army. Plenty of guards had been soldiers before, fought against versians and currently received therapy outside the compound. He could review those professionals and interview them, pick the-

The vibration of his phone stopped his thoughts.

“Kaizuka”, he answered right away, aware of Calm’s attentive gaze on him through the rear mirror.

“ _General_ ”, the soldier panted, his words slurred and labored as if he had been running. As the seconds passed, Inaho’s expression turned paler, cold sweat starting to form in his palms and forehead. He gulped when the call ended, just when their car advanced through the gates of the prison.

“Calm”, he urged, voice restrained, and the man seemed to understand, because he stepped on the accelerator and hurried to the building, parking the car efficiently as close as possible to the doors. The vehicle hadn’t stopped when Inaho’s feet touched the ground, already passing the guards and running the hallways to Slaine’s cell.

They hadn’t been far, he could make it on time.


	6. From the ashes (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s not a single twitch, not a single moment of doubt in Slaine’s expression that’d allow anyone to suspect what’s going to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are again... I must as always remind you to mind the warnings!
> 
> I’d like to thank everyone who’s been waiting for an update and specially those of you who have commented here, your feedback is what makes me stop doubting when I’m in the darkest places of writer’s block. I know I take a lot of time to update (life, job hunting, job), but I hope you too will continue this journey!
> 
> Special thanks to limyth, you don’t know how great you are!

The prison’s infirmary.

A sterile space, the only one where grey is replaced by spotless white on walls, ceiling and floor. It’s a big, open room filled with equipment: monitors, defibrillators, ventilators, an ultrasound machine, and others. It allows the doctor on watch to treat from small wounds, fractures, infections, to perform minor surgeries if needed.

Once, when the prison only held one inmate, the infirmary had been operated by one lonely doctor, Mümtaz, a young and talented man with experience in E.R. But over time, more and more people arrived, guards and prisoners alike, therefore two nurses had arrived to assist in the treatment of mostly domestic and accidental wounds; a kettle too hot, an elbow to the eye while training, and some sprains were the most common injuries suffered by the personnel.

Thus, the infirmary was a necessary area of the prison, fully functional and pristine, ready to receive a wide range of patients, but it was also almost untouched.

Until now.

The machines are beeping for the first time, coming to life to monitor the steady and loud heartbeat that resounds all around the room. The serum drips slowly in its bag, the clear liquid echoing, the needle leaving an angry red indent that mixes with the constellations on the patient’s arm.

Slaine Troyard’s breathing is even, his chest falling and rising in a quiet rhythm, his pale eyelashes fluttering slightly in his sleep. He looks at peace, relaxed, incredibly young, close to naïve, all adjectives that the world would argue against. There is a warm blanket covering his lithe body, hiding the cushioned restraints that curl around his toned limbs to hold him to the bed.

General Inaho Kaizuka stands by his bedside, his uniform in perfect order, not a hair out of place, quietly observing with impassive eyes. He’s been there alone since he asked Mümtaz to take a well-deserved break, after receiving the confirmation that Troyard was stable and would be fine once he woke up. He’s standing with his vision unfocused, waiting without knowing what to feel. This time, it’s him who dreads the moment when Slaine’s eyes will inevitably open and stare right through him, leaving him naked to stab another piercing cold glare into his heart.

His knuckles are white, nails digging half-moons into his palm. There’s grievance, of course. He shouldn’t have let this happen, he should’ve taken the appropriate precautions. He should’ve known, should’ve foreseen this.

He’s frustrated by his own sentimentality, his inability to take Slaine’s pendant away from the start, his trust in him not using it against himself overpowering his reason. He knew about the resilience of the chain, knew first hand that it could choke someone to death with enough force. He should’ve seen the signs, should have known that the sudden training sessions would bring disaster in one form or another.

Now he needs to face the reality of the situation. He has to acknowledge that he’s not ready for this, that his limited experience in life and vast experience in war are not enough to solve this matter because what Slaine needs isn’t solving, it isn’t for someone to figure out what goes through his head, what phantoms haunt him at night. What he needs is healing, and Inaho doesn’t know how to-

The general’s breath hitches when Slaine’s eyes start fluttering, slowly. He observes, grateful, how green opens…

A cough comes out from Troyard’s mouth, the painful sound hurting Inaho’s ears.

He coughs and coughs, clears his throat and flinches. A sigh from one of them. Or maybe both.

Slaine focuses his sight, tries to move his arms and notices he can’t, a panicked look crossing his eyes until they settle on the IV, on Inaho, who braces himself before speaking, inhaling as deep as he can through his nose.

“You’re in the medical bay”

Slaine doesn’t answer, just sets his blank stare on him, letting his limbs rest on the mattress. The general didn’t expect him to talk, he prefers it this way for once because he’s still not ready and he needs all the time he can get. Maybe that’s what he’s been doing: stalling, stealing time until he can find a way (but what if he can’t?).

Drip. Drip. All around them, the monitors and drops seem to be the only thing alive. Echoing, echoing.

They don’t move.

Inaho clenches his fists harder before releasing them and stretching his sweater over his knuckles, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

“You’ll stay here until the doctor clears you out”, he announces, casually, inevitably. Stalling (but what if it’s too much, what if the water turns muddy and dark, unable to hold life anymore?).

This time it’s clear that the sigh belongs to Slaine.

“As you can see”, his voice breaks, too hoarse to be normal “I’m fine”

He smiles through chapped lips, eyes sharp and icy. They make Inaho think of the bricks of his cell, soulless and unforgiving. He won’t back out either.

“While you behave” he adjusts his cuffs again, “the doctor will give you the nutrients you’re missing”

Nothing happens, so Inaho continues:

“Did you know they created serums that are almost like tasting a real meal?”

“Really”, it’s incredulous, no inflection to make it a question, barely above a whisper to make it a word.

“The testimonies on that front seem unreliable, there’s no consistent data, but it’s a good marketing tech-”

“You’re…” a cough, “keeping me here until I’m _well fed_?” he asks, voice dying out by the end of the sentence. Too dry, too rough. Inaho can almost feel his own throat scratching in sympathy.

“Not me, the doctor”

Slaine wants to point out that Kaizuka is the one giving the orders, that he’s the one that wants to keep him there, it’s written on his scowl, on the angle of his eyebrows, the gleam in his eyes. But he doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t protest. He looks beaten, lying on the bed without fighting his restraints, breathing without trying to hold his breath.

Inaho takes a step back, finally ready to get away from the room now that he’s seen Slaine awake.

“I have no value”, protests the prisoner. But it’s weak, not an ounce of his usual fearfulness in it, his voice too spent for that.

“No”, is the simple answer, given before Inaho starts to walk away, away.

He needs to breath too, needs to get away from the beeping machines and Slaine’s hoarse words, his weak attempt at a reply.

“I-”

“To them, you don’t”

He says, stepping out of the room and closing the door at long last.

Maybe it’s too much for him to take on, maybe his sister and Calm are right. He’s not the one who should be in charge of Slaine because he can’t, he doesn’t have the means to give him a purpose when he doesn’t know anything. Not a thing. Nothing.

He looks at the floor, his shoes ruined with mud and dirt, tainted like him, starting to stall.

To his left, someone clears his throat. It’s the soldier who called him, the same one that shot Slaine more than a month ago. He’s been apparently waiting for him in the hallway.

Inaho just nods. He’s tired.

“Sir”, the man starts, “I took it from him”

In his extended palm, the silver chain of Slaine’s pendant reflects the light. It stops Inaho’s heart for a second. Amongst the gleaming surface, there’s a faint trace of red.

When the general takes the necklace, he feels cold, the object too heavy for his hand. He puts it in his pocket immediately, his fast movements betraying his desperation.

“Thank you, Alexander”

\---

Inaho is alone by choice. He likes the time to think, to learn without the awkwardness of forced social interaction. Regardless of his latest behavior, that’s how he feels more comfortable.

He’s not alone by choice now, though. He’s alone because he needs to be. Because he’s had enough breakdowns in front of his subordinates already, and maybe he too must heal before making any real progress. He knows some of the personnel judge him, silently whispering when he leaves or before he arrives. He’s sure there are no immediate insurrection issues arising because of this, but he must be more careful in the future. He’s glad others seem to understand, to accept his constant presence in Slaine’s quarters as something that can’t be helped. That’s why he’s relocated some of the guards, keeping only the most trustworthy near Troyard’s cell.

He’s also been patrolling other areas of the prison, going into the hallways that hold former Counts and soldiers who glare and spit at his feet. These are high ranking Versians that lost everything, their status and power, and can’t accept to be below a young and seemingly clueless Terran. Most of them think it’s an insult, a façade set up by Earth’s authorities to humiliate them. They didn’t get to know Inaho in the battlefield, and the few who did keep quiet, incapable of recognizing that a brat took them down.

This serves to highlight just how different Slaine is from these men. It forces him to accept that he was wrong, that bat wasn’t the real enemy, he made a mistake that could’ve changed the course of war itself-

Now it’s not the time for that.

Inaho is alone in this quiet room filled with screens, standing in the middle, his silhouette alight by the gleam of fifty surveillance cameras. The system is flawless for a compound of this size, with two guards going over every feed at all times, covering every angle and room.

He sees Slaine in the top left, resting in the medical bay, looking bored but calm. Right next to that monitor, Alexander stands guarding the door, resting all his weight on his right leg. A couple of screens over, some guards play cards while they’re on their break, having some tea and sandwiches before going back to their duties.

Inaho walks until he’s in front of the main monitor, the tape from the happenings of two nights ago frozen in time. He hits play and watches again, maybe for the thirtieth time. There is nothing unusual there, nothing that could’ve alerted the guards.

Slaine’s unruly mop of hair is against his pillow, the lower part of his body covered by the thin blanket he sometimes kicks to the floor. He’s resting on his back, eyes closed and breath even. The general has looked for any detail that could have announced his intentions, but he’s found nothing. There’s not a single twitch, not a single moment of doubt in his expression that’d allow anyone to suspect what’s going to happen.

After a few minutes, Slaine wakes up, eyes lost in the ceiling. He usually contemplates the grey bricks for a while before moving, unknown thoughts keeping him still on the mattress. Inaho has always wondered what goes through his head during those moments of vacant stares, when his sight gets unfocused and distant. He’s tried guessing when sleep plays hard to get at night, when his mind won’t stop working in reminding him of all the ways in which Slaine is broken.

Troyard sits on the bed and seems to sigh, looking at the hands that rest on his lap, flexing his fingers. He removes the blanket, drops his feet to the cold floor and stands, slowly making his way to the head of the bed and sitting there cross-legged, supporting his back on the bars. The light is dim, but his arms can be seen moving around his neck in what looks like a massaging motion that lasts a few heartbeats before he drops them to his lap once again.

Nothing unusual happens for the next minutes. It’s normal for Slaine to get up and sit on random corners of his cell at any time. His head moves, a few shaky but controlled motions; what can be seen of his body seems taut in the grainy image.

Every time Inaho has watched the tape, he wants to scream for someone to get in right away, the seconds ticking impossibly slow now that he knows what happens. He sees Slaine shake and regain his posture over and over, and knows for a fact that he kept quiet all the while.

Alexander is just outside, attentive but powerless to detect the anomaly when the Count keeps such control over himself. The bed rattles violently and that’s when the guard turns around and looks, his lips moving in silent calling, eyes widening and hands flying to his pocket to retrieve the keys. By then, Slaine’s body is completely still.

Alexander yells for assistance, enters the cell and runs to Slaine, checking his pulse, searching for the opening of the resistant chain until he can untangle it from the messy hair and the bruised neck. A second guard motions for the doctor to come faster, keeping the door open so he too can run into view with his equipment. The infirmary is close just for this very reason, because Inaho thought, knew something could happen.

They lay Slaine’s boneless body on the floor, the doctor doing what Inaho would’ve done, telling the nurse to bring the defibrillator while he opens the prisoner’s mouth and gets ready-

Inaho comes into view, and he’s entirely missed the second when Alexander called him, running, shoving Mümtaz aside and breathing into Slaine’s mouth, compressing his chest once, twice, breathing again, pressing down on his ribcage. He remembers how his hands burned with each touch, how he could taste the salty trace of tears each time he tried to breathe life into the other’s lungs, sees the desperation on his features when the nurse comes back with the machine.

They get to work immediately, the doctor forcing him away to do his job. He doesn’t recall the moment he stood and faltered, Alexander holding his arm to keep him upright. It seems endless even now that he knows Slaine isn’t gone, even now that he tortures himself thinking of what he could’ve done different to stop this from happening. He looks to the top left again to remind himself that Slaine is still breathing, that he still has a chance of living.

They get a pulse, Troyard flails, tries to push them away but he has no strength left. They hold him until he falls unconscious by the effort and only one second passes before Alexander talks, Inaho nods, and the guard takes the body in his arms to transport him to the infirmary.

Again in the present, the general clutches the pendant through the fabric of his pocket.

\---

He’s trying to stop himself from sighing. He knows it’s an annoying habit, and the unlucky doctor who’s been entrusted to watch him isn’t at fault for his boredom or his miserable fate, so Slaine just breathes deeply and tries to move a bit on the bed. At least he’s sitting now, even if he’s still trapped.

The doctor moves around the room, checking the supplies, taking notes on his clipboard, checking the expiration date on some bottles. Then he sits at his desk and fills some reports that Kaizuka will probably have to look over and sign, being the all-powerful lord of the prison. It must be boring, Slaine thinks, being the one to write and review the reports, waiting for approval every time a change needs to be done. Administration is a tiresome task he has firsthand knowledge of, from the brief period he served as the son of the late Count Saazbaum.

He gets lost in his own mind, his eyes still following the movements of the doctor, who approaches his bedside with his ever-present clipboard in hand.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, no-nonsense is spelled in his tone and expression.

He looks like a stern man, too harsh for his apparent young age. The doctor doesn’t wait for an answer and takes Slaine’s wrist, measuring his pulse with the ticks of his watch. It’s curious that he doesn’t wear a digital clock, but the prisoner finds the sound somewhat calming; maybe the man does too.

“We’ll weight you tomorrow, but I think everything will be in order”, Mümtaz turns, takes his clipboard from the bedside table and writes. “I’ll put some music, if you don’t mind”

He’s said the same thing for the past week, and he only surprised Slaine the first time. The man, again, doesn’t wait for a reply and moves back to his desk, turning on his computer. He checks his email, clicks away some notifications, and starts the playlist.

The first notes of a piano start, and the soft instrument gives way to a deep, lonely voice that sings about love. Slaine knows enough Italian to want to sigh again, but he holds it. At least the doctor doesn’t blast heavy metal through the speakers and instead favors opera and classical music. Overall, it’s nice to be able to listen to something other than his thoughts, even if it feels unfair and undeserved…

The music is calming even in the crescendo, even when the sweet tones of the soprano turn into a tender ending that compliments the tenor’s voice in the miracle (the impossibility) of found love. It reminds him of the sea, of peace, of an unexplored world filled with wonder…

It lulls him to a dreamless sleep.

\---

When Slaine wakes up, the first thing his eyes find is Kaizuka’s turned back. The general is wearing the usual uniform, but his knuckles lack a sweater covering them, so it must be warm outside. Slaine can’t really tell when the infirmary’s temperature is always set at the same pleasant grades that allow him to be covered the whole day without feeling too hot or too cold; he’s wondered if Mümtaz takes his measuring into account when he sets the thermostat, but there’s a chance that both men are just coincidentally comfortable in the same weather. It’s an unlikely chance, but he’d rather not think much about it.

Inaho talks to the doctor, catching Troyard’s eye now that he’s awake, and Slaine can’t help but follow the words his lips are tracing, his movements and modulation contained. The man listens attentively when Mümtaz shows his reports, explaining the results of the several tests they’ve run, explains what has been done and probably talking about the progress they’ve made.

Slaine can only guess what their exact words are, but they seem to be exchanging opinions over something, their hands motioning to get their point across, Inaho’s eyes always going back to him.

 _Stop looking_ , he wants to say as he finishes to blink the sleep away. _I want you to stop_.

“Slaine”, the general says. It sounds like a plea. ( _Stop_ ).

“Oh, he’s awake”, Mümtaz notes, sending a meaningful look at Inaho, who nods, clearly assenting at something they talked beforehand. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe it’s time for my break”

“Yes, thanks for your work”, the general acknowledges.

Both Inaho and Slaine watch as the doctor goes to a cabinet to retrieve his lunch box, stopping in front of his computer to turn down the volume of the music, Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” now in the middle of the violin of Winter.

Kaizuka waits until he hears the click of the door being shut and Mümtaz’s brief and muffled exchange with Alexander in the hallway before he moves. Slaine can see him waiting, standing in place, he isn’t fooled thinking that the general is stalling. He wants them to be alone, for some reason.

Inaho then goes to the sink, washes his hands with care, gathers some things and walks to his bedside. Then he sits, a plate on his lap, a knife in his hand and an apple in the other. Slaine can feel the change, because this time, just like the doctor, Inaho doesn’t ask.

He peels the apple, the violin’s tender notes accompanying the graceful shift of his hands, the careful movement of his fingers when he slices the fruit.

Slaine just looks, attentive but immobile, focused on blunt nails and the hard pads of his fingers. He feels in a trance, probably due to the music, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know as his heart beats faster and he swallows once, twice. It’s so confusing that he stops thinking and just watches, mind going silent ( _stop_ , but who or what?).

He finishes just as “La parfurm de fleurs” starts, picking a slice of apple and looking at Slaine, holding his sight while his hand gets closer to his lips. It’s gentle but firm, and as expected, he doesn’t ask, just graces Troyard’s lips with the fruit and waits for the half second it takes him to open his mouth and take it, chewing it slowly.

The next song is lost in both of them, but it sounds like Tartini. As the music plays, Slaine’s lips part again for the next slice, munching, his teeth breaking the fruit with intent. His tongue darts out to catch a stray drop of juice, but no one is looking as their eyes lock in a stare.

As the violin picks up, Inaho miscalculates (or not), and Slaine has to catch the slice with his tongue, gracing the pad of a finger, swallowing before chewing, averting his eyes until he’s done and the next piece is placed before his lips.

“Stop”, he says when he’s swallowed the weird feeling building up in his gut. He feels like he’s panting and he’s not sure why.

He breathes and breathes and… Inaho takes one of the slices and licks his lips, eating it while Slaine flinches and forces himself to breathe through his nose.

He reminds himself that he’s chosen to stop thinking, receiving the next slice with more care, waiting until his teeth hold it steadily before Inaho’s fingers retreat. He’s on the verge of something and he knows it, but he won’t acknowledge it even if he never looks at the general in the face again.

It’s slow going and the slices seem to never stop coming, but with a final flourish Inaho takes the plate to rinse it in the sink, washing the knife before saying goodbye and leaving the room.

With the distant echo of a piano, Slaine remembers.

Winter is life waiting to bloom.

\---

The sun is setting when Inaho gets home, tired to his bones, body aching for rest. He sighs as he hangs up his jacket, sitting to take off his shoes. He can hear the clattering of plates and water running, so Yuki must be in the kitchen getting everything ready so he can cook dinner. Sure enough, the energetic notes of “Welcome home!” can be heard through the space of their shared apartment.

“I’m home” he answers in his usual tone, masking the heartbreak and confusion he feels.

“The bath is ready!”

“Thank you”, he says before going straight to his room, leaving his suitcase on his desk.

He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to remember his visit to Slaine or the feel of his rough tongue against his finger. It’s something he knows is not allowed, but he’d be lying if he said it isn’t part of what he wanted, what he expected to happen sooner or later. He doesn’t want to define it, doesn’t want to go too deep into the implications it has for his motives.

Grateful that no one is around to see him, he sighs.

Bathing is a mechanical task for him, even more so now that they have a shower, no traditional Japanese bathroom divided in two. Now, he prefers it that way, with less time to dwell on his day, less time to stop and consider the obvious reaction he’s been trying to ignore ever happened in his lower half. He’s not used to this, to the shower, to his body reacting in ways that feel out of place in this foreign country where he must be a general taking care of administrating a prison.

He rubs his face, brushing back his hair. From that second of contact in the infirmary, everything has felt like a blur, disconnected scenes going one after another without any discernible link keeping them together.

Maybe he should stop visiting for a while, he thinks as he towels himself dry. Maybe the proximity is getting to his head, making him feel and see ghosts where there aren’t, no matter how much he wants them to exist. It’s all an illusion that feeds on the image of Slaine being pliant to his care with welcoming lips, the flash of a pink tongue darting out-

Inaho throws the towel in a basket and starts putting on his briefs with more force than necessary, picking a pair of sweats, shirt and sweater. He swallows before opening the door to his room and stepping into the hallway. The door to Yuki’s room is half open, and he can see a pile of clothes and a bra over the bed, waiting for laundry day. It’s routine. It’s calming routine.

“Nao! I set up the rice cooker and left the vegetables and chicken on the counter”, she smiles. “I’m getting in the bath now!”

He smiles too while she can see him, opting to walk to the kitchen to cook without thinking of anything. The vegetables are perfect, drops of water making the cabbage glisten in the light-

Inaho needs to give Slaine a reason to live, but he can’t do that on his own.


End file.
